The Demands of an Opera Ghost
by Kandakicksass
Summary: It all began when Raoul received a strange letter from the opera ghost and was dragged into an unstable relationship he had no choice in. E/R, Leroux-verse, mainly. Dark, but with a happy ending.
1. Chapter 1

**It is, I assume, quite obvious that this is written from a mixture of the movie and the book. For instance, I like Erik's signature in the movie much better, so it will be used here. Also, I think it a little difficult to write a good yaoi based on the book when Erik is supposed to look like a mummy. So obviously, he will appear as he does in the 2004 movie… smokin' hot and a little deformed. And let's pretend the hair is real, shall we?**

_M. le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny__, _

_The gala tonight requires a date, this you are very much aware of. I am also aware that you are lacking in such an infantile thing, and as it so happens, I am also without one. I assume that you have the brain cells enough to comprehend what I am suggesting. I demand—because a request would imply that you have a choice in the matter, which you do not—that you accompany me to this event. I will meet you outside Christine Daaé's room ten minutes before the gala in question. You will change into something I have picked out for you. If you are late, you will not like the repercussions. Please be on time._

_As always, I remain your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

"Christine!"

The brunette looked up, startled, as Raoul barged into the room. The letter was still firm in his grasp, his eyes wide and a little wild. His breathing was irregular.

"Christine, look at this! Look at this, this _letter _I've gotten from Mme. Giry!" His voice was urgent and he waved the letter in her face as if that would make her take it sooner.

As soon as she saw the familiar seal, Christine's brown eyes widened considerably and she snatched it from his hand.

Her eyes scanned it and it shook with her unsteady hands.

"Christine," Raoul croaked in a small voice, but she cut him off, her voice small but very stern.

"Raoul, you have to do as he says." Her eyes were sad, and more than a little confused, but her voice was firm.

His eyes popped. "Christine—" But she cut him off again.

"Raoul, do you think I've enjoyed performing every task he has set to me? I have done them, knowing terrible things will happen if I did not. Raoul, you have to look upon what I have done. Do as he says."

Raoul's pale cheeks darkened to an almost unhealthy-looking shade of maroon.

"He has not asked you to be his date for a gala in front of the entire public! Why would he not ask you?" Raoul screeched, his tenor voice edging up several octaves into a territory Christine would be more comfortable with. "I am a man, first and foremost, and on top of that, he is asking for the patron of the Opéra Populaire to appear at the gala with the infamous _Phantom of the Opera_, and he expects me to comply without thought?"

Christine did not say another word, but her eyes told him that, yes, he did expect that of him.

"Please, Raoul," she said softly. "Do not anger him."

"How does he expect to accompany me without ruining my reputation? Do you realize what that will _do _to me, frolicking around with the _opera ghost_? It will be the death of me! The Opéra Populaire will have to find a new patron, I—" He cut himself off, his face going white again.

"Raoul," she said mildly. "It is a masquerade, my love."

Raoul slumped in defeat. "Yes," he sighed. "Yes, of course it is." Taking the letter from her, he left again with out a goodbye. He closed the door behind him, listening for the assuring click, and began down the hall, his mind a whirlpool of emotions and fears.

Of everything he wanted, the first was to avoid _that man_. To avoid that man Christine called her teacher, the beautiful, hideous phantom that had haunted the opera house for who knew how long. He knew he would have to apologize to Christine eventually, but now he was far too wrapped up in horrible possibilities. After all—who knew what that wretched man could be planning?

He walked without purpose, ending up near the stage, watching the ballet girls practice.

"Raoul! There you are!"

The blonde looked up at his flawless older brother, Philippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny, who was walking toward him as quickly as he could with his dignity in tact. The smile on Philippe's face was wide and charming, as ever, but Raoul returned it much less enthusiastically.

"I have been searching for you nearly all day, brother," Philippe boasted, as if this was a great accomplishment. In some way, Raoul conceded that it probably was to his far lazier brother. Raoul had to admit that Philippe searching for him himself was unusual; this Raoul did not say.

"Why?" Raoul asked, curious. He couldn't remember having any plans for the day—then again, he couldn't remember what he had been doing before the finding of the horrible letter. At the thought, Raoul's frown returned.

"Don't give me that look! I need to speak with you, about the ball tonight. Something tells me that as usual, you have not made arrangements for a date," Philippe assumed, and Raoul's frown deepened.

"As a matter of fact, brother, I do have a date!" he snapped sharply, then winced. What had possessed him to mention that? He should have just… he didn't know what he would have done, but _anything _would have been better than that.

Philippe raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Do you? Who? And if it's the little opera singer, Raoul, I may have to hang you."

"Not if the phantom doesn't do it himself first," the viscount muttered under his breath, then cleared his throat and addressed his brother once more. "No, Philippe. It's not _Christine_. Christine is… unavailable."

"Targeted by that blasted O.G. again?"

Raoul shook his head. _It would be so much easier if he were after Christine. Well, I'm sure he is, but how he plans to achieve her through making me act as his date… I have no idea._

"Just unavailable. I'm afraid my date is somewhat of a…" Fiend, monster, murderer? "… mystery, even to me. But I assure you, I have one."

Now Philippe just looked skeptical. "Are you trying to tell me you don't know who your own date is?"

Raoul sighed. "No, brother. I know who my date is. I just don't know much about…" He let the sentence trail off, not knowing what the phantom's reaction would be to being called a girl, nor Philippe's reaction to hearing Raoul's date was a man. Either way, things would not turn out in his favor, so he opted to end it on a vague and rather incomplete note that would hopefully assuage both parties.

Philippe didn't look pleased, but he no longer had the suspicious eye of a man who knew his younger brother was getting himself into trouble. "Fine. Be that as it may, if anything happens, your 'date' will be leaving. I won't have your little mystery woman ruin the night. We are paying for it after all."

Raoul rolled his eyes, but a chill settled through him as he saw the curtains to his right shuffle. The air somehow seemed… darker. Angrier.

"Philippe," the blonde murmured urgently. "I think you should leave."

Philippe raised his golden eyebrows at him again. "Why? I'm having fun. Besides, you have such a _nice _view here…" Raoul made a face at the glance his brother gave the chorus girls. What was Philippe trying to do? Piss of the opera ghost?

"You're in a relationship, Philippe. Please. Just leave, before you do something you regret." _Like get yourself killed._

"Why?" Philippe repeated, this time with irritation. He saw his brother's right arm stiffen and he couldn't help but take a step back. He had learned early on not to anger Philippe, and it seemed like he had.

"Because, Philippe," Raoul forced out. "I just think… don't you think you should you should return home? Mademoiselle Gabriella is waiting for you, is she not?"

A spark of anger lit Philippe's eyes. He loved Raoul, this the blonde viscount knew, but Philippe had a fiery temper, and sometimes couldn't control himself. Raoul thought dryly that his date and his brother were alike in that way.

"Raoul, you are not one to be telling me what to do," Philippe said through gritted teeth.

"Please, brother," Raoul whispered, but it was too late. No matter what his next words would have been, Philippe's arm had already been raised, his hand as rigid as a board and Raoul automatically closed his eyes, flinching away from the pain that was surely to come.

But the pain never came and when he opened his eyes again, he was met with the oddest image he'd ever seen.

"I would suggest that you keep your hands off of the vicomte," the low, melodious voice of the opera ghost said pleasantly, but Raoul could hear a much darker tone underneath the outer layer of friendliness. "If I so much as see a bruise on the boy, I do promise you that you will have twice as many on yourself."

Now Raoul was simply confused. Since when did the phantom go around saving him from slight bruises? And, Raoul added as anger bubbled up within him, where did he get off thinking he had the right to threaten _his brother _over such a matter?

"M. Phantom, it is _my _suggestion that you unhand my brother!" Raoul interjected hotly, grabbing the phantom's wrist and pulling it away without thinking of what he was doing. He gave Philippe a look that told him to _run_, and run he did, nearly tripping over a newly annoyed Meg Giry, who smoothed out her dress and black hair with distaste.

The phantom, however, looked down at him in surprise, the one visible eyebrow raised.

And Raoul froze when he realized what he had done, looking up into the face of doom with a sense of dread settling into the pit of his stomach. This was the first time he had ever come face to face with the infamous opera ghost, and Raoul was struck with how _interesting _the man was. One half of his face covered by a mask of the smoothest, purest white porcelain that was enchanting in and of itself, but it was the other half of his face that caught his attention.

The man in front of him had the most heavenly golden-green eyes, some strange mixure between the two. It was like emerald with gold flecks—enchanting and bewitching in a way Raoul was unfamiliar with. A high cheekbone, pale, but not white. No, his skin was a very light peach color—the skin of one who had spent much time indoors. His dark hair was slicked back, but rich and healthy. Raoul normally did not like the style, but for some reason, it worked for the man in front of him.

In short, the phantom was breathtaking.

"And how are you going to stop me from chasing your dear brother down, M. le vicomte?" he asked, and his leather-covered hand took the one that had released his wrist only to dangle in midair as Raoul had forgotten to return it to his side. Now, he could not—it was trapped, held in the grip of one much more deadly than he. But then, Raoul couldn't move away, or even look away, so if he were to die it would be his own fault for being so susuptible to beauty.

"I…" Raoul didn't know what to say.

"Or," the phantom continued, bringing the other hand up to stroke Raoul's blonde hair. Raoul coudldn't help but like the feeling; he hadn't been treated with such gentleness since he was a child, and even though he hated himself for it, he found himself wishing the phantom wouldn't stop. "For that matter, how do you plan on pursuading me to keep my hands off of _you_?" The hand on his hair suddenly gripped it, pulling his neck at a harsh angle.

Raoul cried out. Deceived, by beauty and petting! How pathetic he was. The viscount struggled, looking up with eyes no longer clouded in awe.

"I… beg of you to let me go, M. phantom." The words were quiet; a feminine man, perhaps, but Raoul still had his pride.

The phantom smirked.

"My name is Erik, boy," he snorted. "That 'monsieur phantom' is rather… irksome. It makes me want to hurt you far worse than your brother could ever imagine doing himself."

Raoul nodded.

"M. Erik."

Erik released his hold on his hair, letting the hand return to idly stroking it, petting him like one would a pet, but Raoul was no longer fooled by the gentleness. He still enjoyed it, but he knew now that pleasure could turn to pain with one wrong word… or even one wrong whim on the phantom's end.

"You received my letter from Mme. Giry, did you not?" Raoul nodded quickly.

"I did."

"Ten to seven, M. le Vicomte de Chagny," Erik told him in his lovely voice, leaning down to nearly whisper it into his ear. "Don't be late."

Then Raoul was alone without a clue as to where the man, the phantom, _Erik_, had gone. He looked around, but he saw nothing except dancing girls and props. Slowly, still in shock, he made his way towards the managers' office with little idea of what he was going to do about the situation that had cropped up with the arrival of a letter sealed with a wax skull.

**Like it, hate it, anything? This pairing seems to be all I can write as of late, so do tell me what you think. **


	2. Chapter 2

**What is with the absurd lack of updates/new stories in this fandom—specifically, Erik/Raoul. No one updates, save for once every six months from the odd writer! It kills me so!**

**As for notes specifically for this story, I shall point out I've fixed myself a schedule that as of this update, I shall attempt to update this fic at LEAST once a week. It is also not going to be as long as my Kurofic "Haunting Eternity", but there WILL be a plot, and smut. I do quite like plot.**

"Erik... stopped Philippe from hitting you?"

Raoul nodded, his expression blank in a childish way. He blinked up at Christine's confused, surprised expression. "I know. Odd, isn't it? Does he usually go around doing that?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Not that I'm aware of. I don't know why he'd... shouldn't he hate you, Raoul?"

He shrugged. "That's what I was thinking. Exactly what I was thinking."

Christine bit her lip. She fiddled with the flaring hem of the top half of her dress, clearly unsure of what to say. So for the next minute or so, she didn't say anything else. Raoul sat there on her bed, considering the situation, giving the mirror behind his female friend an unsure look.

"Is he an especially kind man, Christine?"

She bit her lip a little harder. "That depends, Raoul, love. What do you consider kind?" He sighed.

"I don't know. Is he nice?" He looked up, trying not to bite his own lip. Raoul had sharper teeth than most, and he had learned as a child not to bite things, be it a finger or a lip, because they bled. "Is he cruel?"

Christine wrung her hands. "I don't know, Raoul- you can't define him like that. Erik... he is a man of heaven and of hell. I cannot explain it."

"Try," Raoul urged.

She sighed, wincing slightly. "I... as of late, he's much... kinder. Well, kind for him. He's not normal, you have to understand. He has different standards for kindness, Raoul."

"What is kind for him, then?"

She began, sounding reluctant at first before she got swept up in her own assessment of her angel. "He's... eccentric. Erik is very eccentric. Sometimes, when he is working on his _Don Juan Triumphant _he is very harsh, and then nothing is kind of him. He will say later that he was very kind, simply for the fact that you lived after interrupting him. He's very stern, as well- during my lessons, I must do just as he says."

"Don't you have to do just as he says all the time?"

She gave a small chuckle. "Well, yes. That's not all there is to him, though- think about him though. All he has done for me has been out of love, or what he thinks is love. He's very passionate, you know. When he does something, he puts his heart into it. It's admirable." She paused, a slight smile on her face for a second before it dropped. "He's been through so much, Raoul. So many horrible things..." She shuddered.

"What... what do you mean?" Raoul had unwilling pity flush through him.

When Christine continued, she looked seemed very sad. "His mother didn't want him. He says often "my first gift was a mask", always, over and over. It's a very prominent memory... perhaps the only memory he feels worth anything. He went through so much- he was with gypsies for a while, performing..." She grew very still and Raoul felt himself get a little colder. "The only way he could make a living. He was a genius, Raoul, yet... he had to resort to being a freak show attraction. Horrible..."

Yet it was Raoul who was really hit by this statement.

"I... poor Erik." He had never thought he would say the words that had infuriated him so when Christine had, but he had said them, and there was no way to take them back. With the deep pity resounding through him, there was no way he _could_. "Poor Erik." _Poor Erik._

"He's not horrible at all," she said, shrugging delicately. "He's really a wonderful man. He's frightening sometimes, and he's… well, he's quite mad. But, he's not evil." Christine looked over at the clock and sighed. "You should probably head out, dear. Erik won't take kindly to you being late." Raoul made a face.

"So he's already made abundantly clear," he sniffed. "He made sure to remind me earlier—seven o'clock, and no later!" He shook his fist, mimicking Erik. Christine laughed.

"He's not so horrible," she chuckled. "You know, he is really just as lovely as his voice." She gave him a meaningful look, but he wasn't paying attention anymore.

"Now that I think about it, he really does have a lovely voice," Raoul commented thoughtfully. "Makes sense—he's a wonderful singer." Christine giggled and Raoul blushed when he realized how like an infatuated young girl he had sounded. "Don't say anything.

She laughed and spoke despite his warning. "I think you'll find that being Erik's consort isn't quite so bad after all… isn't that so, love?" His blush darkened several shades. "You should go and get ready. It takes you at least two hours, and it's nearly four."

He cursed. "You're right! I'll tell you later how it goes, Christine!" She was still laughing as he dashed out of the room.

Raoul arrived at his home in record time. He didn't have to spend hours picking out an outfit like he normally did (fashion wasn't his forte and it took him awhile to come up with something decent) because Erik had said that he would have an outfit for him, which gave him more time to bathe and prep.

"Raoul, you're going to be late!" Philippe called, halting him. "Would you like me to pick something out for you to wear?" He often did this for him, which was greatly appreciated, but unnecessary this time.

He shook his head. "No, my date has an outfit prepared for me.

"Quite controlling, this woman of yours," he said suspiciously, sipping from the wine glass in his hand. He'd obviously picked up on Raoul's tendency to avoid the word 'she'. "Lively, is she?"

"Yes," he said vaguely, refusing to look at his brother. "May I go? There will be hell to pay if I am late." _Only God knows how literal that saying may be. _Philippe certainly didn't look like he was giving up, but he conceded and nodded, giving Raoul the permission he requested to dash up the stairs.

He proceeded to take a very long bath (and he would never tell anyone, even Christine, what he used in his baths because he was called girly enough) and dressed quickly and simply in a white shirt and black trousers. He almost feared what he would be put into when the phantom got his hands on him, but he reminded himself that he couldn't complain about it, even if it was ridiculous.

"Are you ready to go?" Philippe asked as he took the stairs down by twos and he nodded. "Are you meeting her with your outfit at the opera house?" He nodded again.

"Yes! We must hurry."

They did and Raoul was relieved that they had arrived fifteen to seven. He was safe by five minutes! He thanked god quickly, giving Philippe a quick good-bye before jogging to the second level of the opera house, where Christine's dressing room, and consequently the phantom, was.

"You're on time," he said with a small smile, standing there like the epitome of perfection. He debated telling the man that, and decided against it; what were the odds of that ending well? He thought about it. Not very high. "I thought you would be late."

"I'm always punctual," he lied breathlessly, unable to deny that he was just a bit excited. He was about to do something no viscount had done before—he was going to go to a ball with a man on his arm (or on the arm of a man, since he doubted the phantom would accept submission).

"What a lie," Erik chuckled, and Raoul considered it a blessing he hadn't accidentally angered him. "Come, I shall help you dress." Raoul blinked. He was going to be dressed—seen naked by Erik? He ducked his head as he followed the man into the room next to Christine's, hoping the curtain of soft golden hair would cover his blush. Judging from the satisfied smirk Erik had, he'd seen it, and that wasn't reassuring to be honest. "Come, don't be so shy. Did you plan on being so innocent when married to Christine?"

Erik laughed when the look on his face told him that yes, he probably would have been, and he attempted to deflect the embarrassment by asking a defiant question of his own. "Why do you say 'did'? You act as if the plan is past tense." Erik's smile didn't shrink in the slightest and he calmly pulled the plain golden ribbon from Raoul's neck. The collar of his shirt opened just a bit more, showing the lily-white, vulnerable flesh of his neck and collar bone. The shirt was slipped from his shoulders and he couldn't help but suck in a sharp breath when he felt warm breath against the nape of his neck. Strong arms came around his middle, undoing the button on his pants.

"Your future with Mlle. Daaé is nonexistent, my dear patron," he said patiently, like Raoul was a small child who needed to stop denying something and accept it. "The whys and hows will be addressed at another time."

Raoul wanted to retort somehow, but Erik was massaging the part of his stomach just above the waistband of his slacks, another wrapped loosely around his neck. His nerves were on haywire and even breathing became something he had to think very hard about. "M-M. Phantom—M. Erik…"

Erik chuckled against his neck, just below his ear. "So easily swayed, Vicomte. Shall I dress you now, or will you resist?" Unable to speak for fear of his voice shaking, he looked away and nodded, hoping Erik would get the idea.

Erik undressed him further, though he left him to put on his own pants, which were a light gold color. The shirt was black, and the jacket over it was golden as well. His mask was a delicate, metal thing that he was fairly sure was real gold.

Erik slipped the boots onto his feet—black leather, which looked very expensive, and smiled up at him.

"You look…" He couldn't seem to find a word to describe him and simply shook his head. "Come. We shall be late if you dawdle anymore." Raoul blushed and stood, taking the arm Erik offered him, and they left.

"Do you have some plan for this?" Raoul muttered, looking up at Erik, who was slipping a black mask on. He'd opted to dress simply in a very nice black outfit which accommodated Raoul well. This relieved him, because for a while he'd been terrified the phantom planned to go as the Red Death again.

"Plan for what?" he asked with a smile. Raoul had a feeling he was really in for it because that smile, while reassuring, made feelings stir in him that weren't at all comforting. He felt a light flutter in his chest and fear gripped him beneath the surface. He had to remind him who he was—people of his station just did _not_ do this—whatever this was.

"For being my date in front of almost two hundred people," he said bluntly as they neared the ballroom. "When we're both men. This won't go over well." He gave Erik a meaningful look, who just snorted.

"Please. Are you scared, vicomte?" he teased, pulling the reluctant vicomte into the room.

"M. Erik, please!" he hissed desperately to his companion, valiantly trying to make him see reason. "They will shun me! Dancing with another man, they will think I'm homosexual!" Why was the ghost ignoring such a fact so thoroughly.

"I don't care what they think of you," he said rudely. "You have no need for them any longer. I will be your priority from here on out."

"Do you really want me to be miserable because I'm hated by the rest of society?" he asked in a last ditch attempt. Erik stayed silent. "Please. Can't we just stay low-key? I came with you willingly, didn't I? Reward me—don't draw attention to us!"

After a lengthy silence, he finally replied. "Keep your mask on at all times, and speak as little as you can manage. I won't do anything outrageous, if you do those two things." Raoul was relieved that the phantom seemed to care about his well being. "You will, however, dance with me." This he said with a smirk and Raoul blushed, thanking the heavens that he was wearing a mask.

Erik kept a firm hand on the small of his back, leading him onto the dance floor. Raoul let Erik lead him into a waltz, joining the many other couples dancing on the floor. Other than a couple little boys mimicking their parents, they were the only dancers who were both male. Raoul had been forced to learn the woman's part of the waltz to be Philippe's dance partner and dancing with Erik required him to know it since the phantom certainly wasn't dancing the woman's part himself. He couldn't help but admit that he enjoyed being so close to the man, and if he could have shaken himself without undoubtedly making the already smug phantom laugh, he would.

At first, their presence made little impact on the crowd, but the longer they were there, the more people noticed them, and watched them from the corner of their eyes as they continued to dance. "See? They've no idea who you are—nor I, for that matter. We are utterly inconspicuous," Erik chuckled under his breath. Raoul couldn't help but giggle the slightest bit, just a tad high on excitement.

"Inconspicuous? Hardly. We are simply strangers, with hidden identities." But he was actually enjoying being just another face in the crowd, the center of attention because of what he was doing instead of who he was. He would have to thank Erik later. He was really having fun, much more than he would have had if he had gone with Christine or some other woman.

Of course, he was still apprehensive about the whole situation—it went against his every principal! Still, he had to admit, it was more entertaining with Erik, who was murmuring the odd comment or observation in his ear, some of which made him snort with laugher.

It was only a few songs later, however, when he found himself entirely uncomfortable. He could feel all eyes on them and his cheeks burned. He yearned to break free, to run from the room, but he didn't. There were whispers now and the music was almost made up entirely of them. He couldn't hear the orchestra anymore.

Then Erik leaned forward and whispered into his ear mild words of calm. His words calmed him and he took a deep breath, allowing himself to calm down. Erik smiled and he returned the grin tentatively. Erik refused to let him stop moving and had to remind him to do the natural turn, which he did with red cheeks.

They broke apart when the song was over and Raoul went to the refreshment table, snagging a glass of wine. Erik was close behind him, but standing far enough away that it wasn't obvious he was keeping an eye on him. It honestly didn't bother Raoul, however—he kind of liked being cared for to some level by someone who wasn't obligated to do so, like his brother.

He spoke a little with the man behind the bar counter, who looked a little ruffled to be talking to the very one who had been on the floor, making a scene with his male partner. Their conversation was cut short, however, when a man in dark blue grabbed his upper arm and pulled him to the hallway.

"I recognized your hair," the man growled under his breath and Raoul froze as the man ripped off his mask.

His horrified, angry brother had stood there, his wide blue eyes on his younger brother with some mixture of disgust and fury. Philippe had seen them, and he was not happy.

**Yesterday, I wanted to kill myself, which was not the right frame of mind for this. Today, I kind of… lost it, and this almost became RENT. Also, not the right frame of mind. Finally, I got it. Thank god!**

**RE-POST EDIT!: I felt that what I had was… not that great, and not how it would go down. So I edited it. **

**Kandakicksass**


	3. Chapter 3

**WARNING: It starts with an 'L', ends with an 'N', and has an 'EMO' in between—and it's coming up soon (not in this chapter, but this is where the 'mature' warning comes in). You know what I'm talking about. Also, Raoul gets slapped and Philippe gets threatened, but that's pretty much it. **

**IMPORTANT: If you haven't read the edited version of the end of the 2****nd**** chapter, please go back and do so!**

Philippe had been angry with Raoul many times before, but never before had the blonde, childish viscount felt like his stern, lecherous, sometimes bi-polar brother hated him. The look in Philippe's eyes now told him that his elder brother might very well despise him. The thought terrified him—Philippe hurt him enough when he loved him. He couldn't imagine what the man would do to him if he hated Raoul.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked in a low voice.

"I d-don't know what you mean," Raoul stammered, but his nervous tendency to avoid his brother's gaze gave his lie away. Philippe's eyes were darkening by the minute. "Really, Philippe, it's no big deal. You're overreacting—"

Philippe slammed his fist against the wall and Raoul flinched, backing away slightly. "Overreacting? What happens when the rest of France knows you're arriving with another man as your date?"

"The rest of France doesn't need to know!" Raoul said sulkily, playing with his long blonde hair, removing the black ribbon Erik had tied last minute and shaking his hair to fall about his shoulders. "It's my personal affair—and besides which, I'm wearing a mask!"

"I recognized you!" Philippe cried. "Who else could who sees you daily? I'm sure your little ballerina-singer could!"

"Christine already knows." Philippe's eyes bulged and he winced, realizing that he'd just said something rather stupid. "Philippe, they're very close—of she would know!"

"So what, he's her friend? Is that what this is? Are you secretly gay, and your darling "Christine" is trying to play matchmaker?" Philippe laughed cruelly, the harsh edging cutting into Raoul. His control was slipping.

"I'm not gay!" Raoul shrieked, his voice slipping up an octave or two. They hurt, Philippe's words. The brother he had cherished for so long now made fun of him, saying cruel things and weakening him. He hated being so horrible, so perfectly open that the Comte could easily figure out what to say when to hurt his fragile feelings.

"He's a man!" Philippe hissed, his grip still tight on the blonde's upper arm. Raoul tried to control himself, but Philippe was being so _frustrating_. The vicomte was _not_ gay, but Philippe's homophobia was making him want to tear his hair out, and he quite liked his hair. "A man, you little fool!"

"He's also the opera ghost, but you don't see _me_ complaining, and I'm the one who got threatened into this!" Raoul snapped, slapping Philippe's hand away, hoping that in mentioning the 'threat', his brother would realize that it wasn't his fault.

Philippe's eyes popped and Raoul felt hope balloon within him. "You're frolicking around with the _phantom of the opera_?" Raoul would have sighed in defeat if the scorn in Philippe's voice hadn't put him on the very angry defensive. "Why do you even speak to the demented bastard?"

Almost against his will, Raoul felt his fury grow. "Don't talk about him like that!" Philippe blinked in shock, but Raoul continued angrily. "He's brilliant, and talented—more than you are!" The minute he quieted, Philippe slapped him, the sound ringing down the hall, and as he felt warmth pool in his cheek, his knees gave. Before he touched the ground, however, Raoul felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist, a warm body pressing itself against his back, keeping him upright.

It almost upset him, how comfortable he was in those arms, how well he fit there, weak and dependent wholly on Erik, like a woman. "Thank you for defending me," Erik's calm voice murmured in his ear. "And as for you—" He gave Philippe a dark smile, who shivered in fear. "I do believe I warned you what would happen if you ever hurt him again, did I not, only this morning?"

"You… you are—" Raoul cocked his head in confusion. Could he not recognize Erik? He looked up at the masked man's half-handsome face. He supposed Erik _did _look slightly different without the cape and porcelain.

Erik's smirk was dangerous. "My dear vicomte, do you mind if I set you down for just a moment?" Erik's voice was gentle and pleasant, but the underlying threat was obvious in his voice. If he sat Raoul down, thus freeing his hands, he would kill Philippe, and he wouldn't think twice about it.

"M. Phantom—" He ignored Erik's glare, knowing that in the long run, Erik wouldn't want his name to be common knowledge. "Please, don't!" He couldn't let Erik kill Philippe—his brother! Erik ignored his pleading, moving to set Raoul down, who racked his wayward brain for a way to stop him. "Please, M. Phantom!" Erik was listening, and in desperation, he did something he never would have done otherwise.

He leaned up and their lips met, Erik's warm and shocked, and a jolt went through Raoul's body. "See, Erik?" he said breathlessly, deciding that it was on Erik's head if the world found out his name (but he doubted greatly Philippe would tell anyone of this encounter). He pulled away with a pretty pink blush staining his cheeks. "Don't hurt Philippe, Erik—I'll do anything you say. You don't even have to ask! He won't hurt me anymore. We won't even speak if you don't want." He tried to turn on the charm like he had heard Christine do before. "Please?"

Erik wasn't listening anymore, however. His wide, golden emerald eyes blank in disbelief. The visible part of his face was frozen in wonder. "You're still alive," he murmured, his voice that of a man given something he'd wanted all his life. He placed his palm over Raoul's bruise lightly, tracing his thumb over the vicomte's lips. "You kissed me, and you still live."

Raoul was severely confused, but he was not going to disagree. "Yes. I live. I can kiss you many times, and I will still live." To prove his point, he did so again, lightly, and smiled, uncertainty in his eyes. "See?"

Erik nodded, coming back to himself. "You are a strange one, my little viscount." His voice was fond, and still slightly amazed. "I will, however, take advantage of that. Comte de Chagny." Philippe's head, turned away in disgust of the thing which had saved his life, snapped up. "Your brother will be residing with me until further notice. If you have any objections, speak them now or hold your peace."

Philippe looked like he very much wanted to object, but he wouldn't. Predictably, he nodded. "Yes, of course." Erik helped Raoul to his feet, who was no longer in the least bit unsteady, but Erik carefully lifted Raoul into his arms anyway.

As Erik walked away, Raoul watched Philippe stand there in horror over the phantom's shoulder until Erik turned a corner in the direction of Christine's dressing room. When he could no longer see the count, he rested his head, letting the gentle rocking motion of Erik's body soothe him. "Thank you," Raoul murmured. The ghost nodded without saying anything and Raoul did not interrupt the silence, letting his newfound companion do so himself.

"If he does happen to hurt you again, my little fop, I will wring his neck," Erik warned a few minutes after he'd carried Raoul through the entrance in Christine's mirror to his abode. "And nothing you can do will stop me."

"I won't try," the vicomte said quietly. "If he does so, it will be on his own merit, trying to incur your wrath."

They walked for a little longer, the sounds of the gentle movement of water reaching Raoul's ear. _The lake_, he realized. _The lake from Christine's story! Why, there really _is _a lake! _He couldn't help but be amazed. The Phantom set him down and Raoul looked up at him, almost a foot taller, and smiled tentatively. Erik's returning smile was small and wry, but a smile nonetheless.

"Into the boat, my dear patron," he said in a voice as smooth as honey after a moment of open-mouthed adoration had passed. Raoul's face flamed and he climbed into the gondola without a word, embarrassed." Have I ever mentioned how adorable you are when you're flustered?"

Raoul let out a yelp, the pink of his cheeks spreading. "I don't believe you have!" His voice came out as a squeak and Erik laughed as he used the oar to push them away from the shore. The ride was shorter than Raoul would have liked, pressed against Erik's legs. He got a good look at the man's clothes—all of the highest quality—and at his shoes, almost perfect leather.

When they reached the other bank, Erik docked the gondola (honestly, Raoul was jealous—he wanted his own little boat) and stepped out into the shallow water, reaching out to offer his arms to the viscount. Raoul accepted, letting Erik swing him out of the boat and onto land. Erik followed, his shoes wet, and immediately took them off, beginning to dry them with his cape.

Like a dog, Raoul followed him unquestioningly up to the little two story house, half hidden by sand. It was, despite its location, quite lovely and Raoul wondered if he would be spending the rest of his life in this little house on the lake below the opera house.

Erik opened the door for him and he stepped through into the cold entryway. He shivered and Erik, smiling in a way reminiscent of someone reminded of something unpleasant, pulled his cape off and draped it over Raoul's shoulders, who looked up in protest.

"Don't refuse," Erik said simply. "It will keep you warm until I get a fire going." Raoul nodded, shutting his mouth. "What's wrong? You look shocked."

"It's a little something more like 'awestruck', actually," Raoul answered, following Erik into the den. "If one overlooks the temperature, it's very nice. I'm almost jealous. It's pleasant and not too extravagant. Simple. I like it."

Erik had a look on his face that, if Raoul didn't know any better, would have been the influence of flattery. "Thank you."

"You should be an interior decorator," Raoul added nonchalantly, and this time, just as he hoped, Erik laughed. It really was such a _nice_ sound; he should do it more often. Raoul watched him start the fire while he chuckled, and when he sat on the very comfortable looking couch, he gestured for Raoul to follow, who did.

The minute he sat, however, he felt the atmosphere change slightly and he was sure that the fire had engulfed the room.

"Erik," Raoul said, looking around, anywhere but at those intense eyes. "Why am I here?"

He felt a warm hand tracing figure eights onto his knee.

"Does my purpose really matter?"

That hand was so warm, trailing up his thigh slowly.

"It matters to me," Raoul forced out, his mind dazed. His body was thrumming with heat now.

"And why is that?" Erik had leaned over and was nuzzling Raoul's neck, who arched it to give the ghost better access. Raoul whimpered when the man's hand palmed his partial-erection lightly.

"How do I know you're not toying with me?" Raoul asked, his voice entirely too high for his tastes, but he couldn't think of a way to bring it down to a lower octave.

"Really, do you think me so rude to do this to you without being completely serious?" Erik's voice was amused, a murmur in his ear, and Raoul let Erik pull him onto his lap, arching his back in an effort to gain more friction.

Raoul moaned loudly and was unsure if the moan had just been a general thing, or an answer. Either way, he didn't care, so long as Erik didn't stop what he was doing—which, at the moment, happened to be moving just enough that his own erection ground against the slightly inhibited viscount's ass, his stomach rubbing against his own hardness. Raoul was trying to remind himself of many things all at once—that he was a man, that he was far too comfortable with another man's cock pressed against his entrance, that he obviously wasn't thinking it through enough because he would have stopped if he was—but he couldn't, not with Erik against him the way he was.

"Do you like this, my dear patron?" Erik asked, his voice heated and curious, arousal heavy in his tone. Raoul couldn't help but keen lightly, giving Erik the answer he wanted. "Are you going to be angry with me for this when we finish?"

Raoul couldn't really answer that one, but he had a feeling that if he said 'yes', Erik wouldn't respond favorably. How strange it was that he feared more that the phantom would stop what he was doing than the pain he was likely to inflict if Raoul didn't answer in the way he wanted him to. In an effort to keep Erik's gorgeous body in motion, he shook his head.

"Erik," he panted, barely able to force his name past his quivering lips. "Erik, please." It was obvious Erik wasn't unaffected, whose eyes burned before he leaned up and kissed Raoul, who certainly wasn't complaining.

It was obvious neither of them would last long, but Raoul was shocked and embarrassed when his insides curled and he lost control of himself, dirtying himself. It shocked him further when Erik followed shortly thereafter, groaning into where he'd buried his face in Raoul's blonde hair. The vicomte went limp in Erik's arms, his mind pleasantly wiped clean.

"Would it be so bad to do that every day?" the ghost asked him when he'd caught his breath, running his hand lightly up and down Raoul's spine.

He had to be honest, and the answer was no. He shook his head against Erik's shoulder.

"What, not talking to me, vicomte?"

"Not sure if I can," he rasped and Erik laughed, the sound sending him into yet another episode of pure awe. When had he gotten so weak that he couldn't even bring himself to think about anything other than the sound of the _phantom of the opera's _laughter?

Raoul was of the opinion that both he and his dreams of a white-picket fence and sweet, high-class wife were in very deep trouble.

**I told you, once a week! Now to write Haunting Eternity ch. 25… yeah, I've been neglecting it. ^.^**

**Kandakicksass**


	4. Chapter 4

**I love reading yaoi manga and predicting the plot and character interference before it even happens. Dude, I'm so awesome! ^.^**

As a child, Raoul de Chagny had been afraid of the dark. He'd always been a rather effeminate child—he didn't like playing with the other boys because they were too rough, and they pushed him around. He didn't like playing with his brother, either, because instead of being bullied, he was teased mercilessly for his long, pretty hair and feminine eyelashes. To top it all off, he couldn't stand to be alone in the dark. When he'd turned into a teenager, Philippe exploited him for it frequently, pointing out that until he was fourteen, Philippe had been the one to sleep with him at night so he didn't die of fright.

The dark scared him for more than one reason. Philippe, too, had been a little timid when it came to utter darkness, but he'd grown out of it at around six, like any other child. Raoul, however, feared both the physical lack of light, and whatever lied within. Ghosts, monsters, even a murderer—who knew what could lay in wait in the darkness? He didn't, but whatever it was, it terrified him.

He stopped being afraid in the dark when he'd turned seventeen. He spent some time at sea and came home no manlier than he had been before he'd left. He was still a delicate little flower, but even so, he could fight fairly well with his fists, and he was downright dangerous with a rapier. Philippe wasn't impressed, and still held a grudge against him for not being around when their father died. His mother died in childbirth with Raoul, and their father had passed in a tragic accident with a buggy on his way home from a trip overseas, while Raoul was still out sailing. Philippe, unlike Raoul, had been very close with the former Count de Chagny, and it was his goal to live up to his father's name, leaving the lonely new-made viscount to his own devices.

At nineteen, he'd found himself obsessed with the opera house. It was much better than what he remembered as a child. The managers seemed jumpy, but the singing was very, very good. Carlotta, who had been at the opera house longer than she would probably like to admit, had much smaller roles than she used to. Rather, the amount of lines and stage time the roles she played used to take up were split between other actresses. This, Raoul was thankful for. He'd never thought Carlotta was horrible—or Sorelli, for that matter. The Paris Opera House was a prestigious place; they wouldn't just let anyone in, no matter how large their egos. Still, there were several newer singers who had likely been at the opera house the entire time, who now were getting a chance to make a name for themselves.

At twenty, he had spent an entire year planning his way into the opera house. As the vicomte de Chagny, there was no way he could go and study ballet, or singing. He needed something to fund by any means, so in the end, shortly after the retirement of MM. Debienne and Poligny, he requested to become the patron. The new managers, Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin, put up very little of a fight, and Raoul got his wish quickly.

He was still uncomfortable in the dark when he'd begun his long, tedious journey of being the patron of the Paris Opera House. He didn't like wandering the empty, badly-lit halls, nor did he spend much time rummaging around in the cellars. He was squeamish all the time, especially alone in a box. He rarely sat with Philippe—to be honest, Philippe liked to hang on him and spend time with him as an adult (he'd told him numerous times that as a child, he'd been far too girly and whiny), but only at home. He had an image to uphold, and that meant that instead of a doting brother, he made sure that he was the stern, do-what's-best brother. Eventually, that had gotten out of hand and he'd lost his gentleness, which had been scanty in the first place, and turned into a living terror. It was like walking on a mine field with Philippe. Raoul had nowhere to go, and it wasn't like taking Christine for a wife and leaving Philippe would work. The minute he made clear his intentions, Philippe would cut any and all family ties with him, leaving him penniless and disowned.

He had nothing, and then, he'd been caught up in the whirlwind that was the Phantom of the Opera. Danger, mystery, excitement. The Opera Ghost offered all of that for him. Was it such a surprise that he'd accept it with open arms? He leapt into the violence, allowed himself to be swept away by the energy of it all. His boring, lonely life… why not leave it behind and become a great hero? Even dying, honorably, at least, sounded better than the purposeless life he was leading. He was happy, for the most part, but his future held little meaning. He'd spend the rest of his days existing on his family's money, pretending to be the perfect viscount, for what? Nothing.

The phantom taught him that. His fancy title, his money, his clothes, his name itself; it was all nothing without something to back it up. Raoul had nothing of the sort, not like his "rival" did. The ghost had traveled across the sea, killed people. He had entire countries out to kill him. In a way, the opera ghost became his idol. He wanted to be like that, to have a history instead of a meaningless little existence. His jealousy over the phantom being what Christine wanted instead of him became jealousy over his dark air of pure intrigue. He stopped being afraid of the dark because the ghost was of the dark, part of it.

It was hard to believe that he was now laying in the arms of the very same being that had held his attention so raptly for so long. Erik lay on the couch on his back, reading a book with the vicomte resting on his stomach, his body tucked between Erik's legs so he could rest his head on the ghost's chest. Raoul played with the collar of his impeccable white shirt, listening to Erik's heart beat.

"You've been really quiet, my dear little vicomte," Erik commented after a few more moments of silence. "Why is that?" Raoul looked up with a little half smile.

"No reason, really," he answered, resting his chin on a well-sculpted chest. "I was just thinking about some things."

Erik set the book aside, smiling down at him. "For an hour? You've been quiet since breakfast. It isn't like you." Raoul blushed at the subtle reminder of how much Erik knew about him. he wondered idly for a moment about how _long _the brunette had been watching him, but he didn't focus on it. It didn't matter, really. "Really, Raoul. Does it upset you so much to be down here with me?"

Raoul glanced back up at Erik to see his expression had become serious. He was a little confused about how Erik had come to that conclusion, to be honest. "No, of course not. Erik, that's not it at all!" Erik sized him up before he spoke again.

"Kiss me then," he demanded, his voice snobbish, but Raoul didn't mind. He'd already told him that he would kiss him as many times as he liked, in a roundabout way. With a small smile, he leaned up and kissed him, soft lips meeting soft lips. Erik smiled back, not pulling away, but wrapping his arms around Raoul's middle. "Hm… you've been with me for a day and I already don't want to let you go."

"You know you have to, right?" Raoul asked, cocking his head to the side. Unwillingly, he had a flashback to when Christine was kidnapped the first time. It was obviously a good sign that he wasn't locked in a room with a hidden door, but surely Erik didn't plan on keeping him there, did he? "You know I won't leave you." Erik didn't say anything and pity, among other things, prodded at Raoul's heart. "Have some faith in me, Erik. I won't leave you. I'll visit you whenever you want…"

"I don't want you here just to keep me happy," he said after another moment of silence. He didn't sound hostile, just resigned. "If you don't want to be here, you don't have to be." His voice was doubtful, though, and Raoul hurried to correct him.

"Erik, I wouldn't be here now if I didn't want to be," he said quickly. He supposed he was lucky that Erik was giving him the choice instead of being overbearing about the whole thing. "I've lived my whole life pretending to be the perfect little brother, the perfect viscount. In a way, I admired you, free to do what you want. And after last night…" His cheeks colored prettily. "After last night, I certainly don't want to leave. I pretty much live here now, right?" He glanced back up at Erik again through his hair, which was in disarray at the moment. "Of course, I have to be seen in public, or they'll think I've gone missing. And I certainly don't want to be a prisoner. But you have to know I'll come back to you." He was practically begging for a little faith. Trust, no. It was too early to ask the broken being beneath him to trust. But faith, absolutely.

Erik didn't say anything for a few minutes, just testing the waters, examining the earnestness in Raoul's eyes. When the vicomte thought all was lost, Erik smiled wryly and nodded. "You're right. I should just… let the chips fall where they may. I suppose a little… faith… never hurt anyone."

He grinned, nodding, and kissed him again. "No, faith hurt no one, ever." That probably wasn't true, but Erik could use a pick-me-up. "As a matter of fact, do you want to know what faith will get you?" He gave Erik a saucy grin. The man had made it perfectly clear last night that their relationship wouldn't be a platonic one, and Raoul had spent much of his life trying to court women rather than get them into bed. Men, they didn't have such hard-core ideas about what a bedroom relationship should be, and besides, it was Erik. His idol, his recently-made friend of sorts. He loved listening to Erik talk—his intelligence was amazing, on top of his body. But he couldn't help wanting more.

He thought for a second that maybe he was being a little ridiculous. He'd been "in a relationship" with Erik for a day. He was getting ahead of himself.

So instead of becoming more like a prositute than he'd ever wanted to be, he kissed Erik chastely on the lips, reminding himself about who he was, and who Erik was. Taking it slow… slower than he had in mind, at least… would be a good thing.

"Faith will get me a peck on the lips?" Erik asked with a quirky smile. "But then, I shouldn't complain. I'm just happy you're willing to kiss me." Raoul laughed, kissing him again. This time, Erik pried his lips open with his tongue, making it a rather enjoyable, albeit sloppier kiss. Neither of them were willing to put forth the effort, and it wasn't like they were being photographed.

"Erik, why did you choose me?" he asked without thinking when their lips parted. The man blinked at him, his hands resting lightly on his hips. Raoul's face turned a lovely shade of red when he realized what he had just asked. "I mean, that was a really rude question, you don't have to answer that—"

"I chose you because you're cute."

Raoul looked up at him and blinked at the tender smile he was given. "Raoul—" That was the first time he'd ever called him by name. "—Do you realize how cute you are? You give everything you do a hundred percent and when things go wrong, you fret over how to make them right. You completely lose yourself, especially if it's something you're doing for someone else."

"You like me because I'm… cute?" Raoul normally didn't like being referred to in a way similar to women, but for some reason, he kind of liked being called cute by Erik. It was more of an endearment when he used it.

Erik nodded. "Very cute. And loyal, like a puppy." He blushed even deeper. "What? You don't think so? You are. You really are. Even with Philippe, you put yourself out there and you try to defend him, even though he's clearly over the line, even in a relationship between brothers. You know that, don't you?"

He bit his lip, trying to think of a way to answer. "I do know that—honestly, I do. It's just, I've lived that like with him since I came back from sailing that I'm used to it, I guess. He's my older brother. I'm used to doing what he says, and taking punishment for it if I don't."

There was a weird note to his voice when he answered, like he was debating something in his mind so thoroughly it was distracting him from the real world. "That's not punishment, Raoul. That's abuse. I'm the only one who can abuse you." Raoul paled a bit, even though the hand that had moved to stroke his hair was still gentle with no implication that it would change. Still… could he really trust that Erik wouldn't hurt him? He knew enough about the man in that regard—he could go from calm to violent in an instant.

"You can abuse me?" He tried to make his voice as meek and submissive as he could, even though he knew he was probably overreacting.

Erik nodded. "My dear vicomte," he murmured, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "You are mine."

**Yeah, for some reason, I think that instead of Erik being the pervert, it should be Raoul. And it's going to get very interesting from here on out. So, I'm starting to feel like a professional author. I'm sitting here, being distracted by manga, going "I should be writing… why aren't I writing!"**

**Kandakickass**


	5. Chapter 5

**By the way, I realized something. There is no way that this story will be light, like I originally wanted. It will be dark, with light points. I was re-reading it and it hit me that there is NO way that the relationship working out here can be stable, like I was originally have it going to be. Sorry if that upsets some people, but it is what it is. **

Raoul de Chagny was scared.

He knew it was stupid, and more than a little irrational considering who she was. Christine Daaé was nothing if not sweet and understanding, but still, he couldn't help insecurity and fear that creeped up inside of him. He was still frightened of the situation he had gotten himself into, so how was he supposed to explain it to Christine adequately?

The minute he had stepped into the sunlight, chosing to take the entrance to the outside to easier make his way to his own house for clothes, the air around him clean and nothing like the suffocating passion in Erik's underground home… he shuddered at the thought. When he was with Erik, nothing else mattered except for him, but he could see now that it was strange… unnatural, the way he belonged to Erik when they were together.

"Raoul!" Christine called from inside and he winced. How did she know? "I can hear you breathing, love. Come in, why don't you? You sound like you're hyperventilating!"

With a wince, he opened the door and stepped inside. "Erik promised not to go anywhere near your dressing room, right?" Christine, who was sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair, perked up immediately and nodded sharply. "Good." He tripped to her side, landing on his knees. He sat on his behind, looking up at her with what Erik called "the blasted doe eyes". "I'm terrified," he said promptly when she gave him a confused, questioning look.

"Why do you look like you've hardly slept?" she enquired, peering down with her chocolate colored eyes, like she was trying to read into his soul.

"Because I haven't slept," he said, cocking his head up at her. He felt a little broken—he wasn't about to lie; he couldn't think enough for that. "Maybe an hour or two, but it so hard to sleep when there's an angel at your side…" He trailed off, thinking about that angel, before he shook his head and looked up at her with eyes wilder than he wanted to admit to himself. "I'm going mad, Christine! I can't stop thinking about him! When I'm down there, I can't think about anything but him and I feel sane, but I know when I leave that I'm not!"

He babbled, and continued doing so, repeating the same things over and over again until the words tasted like sand in his mouth and ran dry.

"Calm down," Christine said finally, her voice a little reproachful. "You'll commit suicide by over-thinking if you keep going on like this. Stop rambling and start from the beginning, okay, love?"

Raoul took a deep breath, forcing himself back into the real world and out of the dark, damp… enchanting… underground. "The ball," he said, clearing his throat. "The ball. We were at the ball." He took another deep breath, feeling his sanity return. "Sorry about that," he coughed, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. "We were at the ball and Philippe recognized me and got angry."

"Did he hit you again?" she asked, immediately taking his face in her hands to inspect every angle of his cheeks. He shook his head. "Did Erik stop him again?" This time, he nodded, looking up at her.

"I don't know what to think anymore," he told her miserably. "The entire week I was hidden away and I barely thought about leaving. He told Philippe I was going to live with him until he said otherwise! I'm so scared that if I go back there…" He trailed off, knowing she would understand.

Christine, true to form, leaned back in her chair with the dantiness of a bisque doll and ran a slender hand through her curly hair. Raoul watched her think in awe, understanding what Erik saw in her. Granted, Raoul found himself with very little interest with women, no matter how much he liked to deny it, but Christine was so innocent—almost angelic. If there was anything to be liked about her, it was that. She wasn't innocent in the traditional, ignorant sense, though, and that demanded respect as well as awe. She knew the world, the darker side of it (primarily Erik), yet she had taken that knowledge to make herself a better person, to help others.

Raoul desperately envied her. Erik treated her like she was holy, like her innocence was the most damn important thing on earth. And Raoul, he thought as he looked down at his slightly calloused, feminine hands scarred from work on a boat, wasn't innocent in the slightest. Shame flooded through him. He wasn't evil, or wicked, but he wasn't innocent. Not like Christine was.

An unusual feeling of self-loathing crept up within him. He clasped his hands together, his nails digging into the peach-colored skin.

"Raoul," she murmured, leaning down and touching one hand with one of hers. He didn't look up, instead studying the ways their hands were alike. They had the same basic structure, with Raoul's a bit bigger. Other than subtle, more masculine differences, his skin was a bit lighter than hers and his nails (far too pretty for him to be pleased with them) a little shorter than hers. "Stop. You're hurting yourself."

He did look up then, unclenching his hands. Her concerned eyes met his and he looked away. "Sorry." She sighed, moving her hand from his hands to his hair, stroking long blonde silk gently. "I've barely been in contact with him for a week, and I already feel like this."

"You need to stop thinking about it so much," Christine said softly. "Thinking about it too much isn't good for you. I was in the same state as you for awhile. Erik… he can do this to anyone. He's unnerving, but not bad. You just need to accept him."

"Like you did?" Sadly, she nodded. "So… what? I have to submit to him? Be his call boy?"

She rolled her eyes at that. "No, Raoul. I'm not saying you have to serve his every whim. I'm saying that unconsciously, you're resisting him. You're either trying to make it all physical, or distance yourself from him. In your case, I think it's probably a mix of both. You want it to be all physical, so there's not an emotional tie, but when you bring yourself from the clouds, you realize that being with Erik has a heavier toll than you thought, and you try to deny it."

He bit his lip. It sounded like an accurate enough description, actually. "I didn't want to be with him," he said at last. "I didn't have a choice." He sounded petulant, and frightened, but he tried to mask it as well as he could. "I don't hate him," he added quickly. "Not at all. And I won't lie and say that I don't like being with him." His cheeks flushed. "I do. I just… I feel unstable."

She smiled wryly. "Yes, I know how you feel," she murmured distantly. "He'll hurt you, Raoul." Her voice was suddenly sharp, piercing. "He _will _hurt you. You have to be strong for him, Raoul." He winced as she grabbed his upper arms, her nails digging into his skin. Immediately, she pulled back. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Are you okay, Christine?" She sighed at the question, bringing a hand up to play with a curl again.

"How to answer," she sighed, sounding as if the question had aged her. "Yes, Raoul. In a way. You've seen for yourself what Erik does to people." She gave him a cute, lopsided smile. "Just… you can't help but be dragged into it. I feel like myself most of the time, when I didn't before, but still, sometimes I slip."

He nodded, wishing he was as in control as she was. "I want to be with him," he said, fiddling with a string on his shirt. "I feel stupid, for wanting to be with him, when I barely know him. But when we're together, I feel sick thinking that he's alone, just spiralling… and he is. I could never leave him to suffer through that by himself."

She nodded. "I know how you feel," she said again. "I told you before, Raoul. He's been hurt so many times, and there's nothing any of us can do about it. You're right, he is spiralling. He'll probably never stop." Her voice was distant. "He's not a bad man, just a cursed one. That's all."

Raoul nodded as well. "It scares me, how easily my sanity slipped from me just now," he told her softly. "That's my only problem with this now, that I can't control my own emotions, can't control myself. It doesn't even bother me that he's a man anymore."

"Did it ever bother you in the first place?" she asked with a slight chuckle. He gave her a wry smile and shook his head. She had a point.

"Not really. I was more afraid for my reputation than anything else." He winced at the thought. "I still am. God! What will they think? Working out of the fifth cellar?" Christine immediately put a finger to his lips.

"Raoul, love," she murmured. "Watch what you say. You never know who listens, and you don't want to give away the his location, do you?" His eyes widened and he shook his head.

"Christine." She nodded, turning back to the mirror, bringing the brush up slowly. "Do you love him, little Lotte?" She stopped, looking over at him in surprise, and he took the time to read the emotions in her eyes. Fear, confusion, as well as others he couldn't place. "You do, don't you?"

She smiled and for once, her smile was sad or bitter. It was sort of… warm. "I do love Erik," she announced, then quieted. "And I'm proud of it. Not many can say they love a beast."

"Is that how you think of it?" he asked with a chuckle that she didn't return.

"Raoul," she murmured gently. "It's not a bad thing to love him. He's a pitiable creature, Erik. He knows it. But it's possible to see past the monster." She sounded like she was selling him something, but there was genuine belief underneath the saleswoman voice. "He's a genius and at least he can admit to it. He knows what he is… and the way I see it, anyway, he can't be evil."

"And what is your reasoning for this?" He agreed with her, but he wanted to know anyway. Her smile was almost dreamy when she replied.

"The music he makes, when it's not his _Don Juan Triumphant, _is so beautiful," she said in a soft voice. "So lovely. Pure, even. A _monster_ couldn't write such lovely melodies." He agreed, wholeheartedly. "Have you heard his music?"

"I was down there with him for three and a half days," he answered smartly. "Of course I did. He can't keep away from that piano longer than an hour." And if he was honest, it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. In a smaller voice, he added, "Listening to it in person was better than listening to it when it echoed through the Opera House."

She smiled again, tenderly this time. "Yes, it is. You have to love him too, Raoul. I promise you can. It's not hard at all. Don't think of the monster. Just think about Erik. If you have to, think about the music."

He nodded absently. He understood that Christine had been taken against her will, so of course she wouldn't feel the way he did, but he couldn't think that way. He didn't mention that he didn't have to diferentiate between the different Eriks. They were all the same man, and Raoul knew himself well enough to know that if he didn't love _all _of Erik, he wouldn't love any of him at all.

He wondered about how strange it was, that just a week ago he had been handed a letter from a tight-lipped M. Giry and wanted to burn it and its sender. He'd been frightened. So much could change in a week. He reached up, touching his lips lightly. He was frightened of him, he realized. But fear wasn't all he felt. He didn't love Erik—he hadn't even spoken to him before the past week. He was enchanted by him, but who wasn't? He felt _pity _for him. Poor Erik.

_Poor, poor Erik._

**If you notice, Raoul is a bit more emotionally mature than I normally read him as. He's fragile, but he's a man. I'm trying to find a balance between the two, so be patient with me, lol.**

**Kandakicksass**


	6. Chapter 6

**Heh. You mediocre dunce.**

The insanity was becoming normal.

He burned, he pined, he perished, but slowly as if waking from a dream only to find it was real, the insanity he was in, teetering between a fantasy and a nightmare, was becoming normal. When he woke in the morning, he no longer expected to see the curtains on his bed at the de Chagny manor. He no longer expected lavish breakfasts. He expected either a warm body and darkness or piano music that would waft around him and a normal breakfast on a trolley next to the bed.

Instead of roses, he expected amaranths, all different kinds for Erik told him that roses were tacky, unoriginal, and unflatteringly short-lived. The amaranth continued to thrive for him and would not die on him like a rose would wither. Instead of kisses, sweet and chaste, he expected passion and pain that he had no control over. Instead of hugs, he expected an embrace more personal than he'd ever received from another human being.

"Just put that over there," he instructed as he watched laborers bring in new set equipment into the backstage area. His voice was rough and tired, his eyebrows furrowed. "It's far to big for us to deal with now. The little things need to be brought in as well, you know."

The men looked at him with slight scowls. Normally, Raoul would help them work; he never was one for slave-driving, but on that particular morning he was far too tired, and far too occupied with trying to sort out his own affairs. His own affairs? His own jumble of confusion, more like.

"Hello, Raoul. Welcome back to society."

He jumped about a foot out of his own skin at the light chirp from behind him, looking back with wide eyes and an open mouth. The person behind him laughed loudly at him, making his skin turn red with embarrassment.

"What? Did you not think I'd notice that you went missing for a week?" he asked curiously. "Surely you know me better than that." Raoul sighed, running his hand through his hair with a smile.

"You're right," he chuckled. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Yves."

Yves Rousseau laughed at him, throwing his head back to reveal a slender throat subtly marked. His hair, the color of cinnamon, was tied back in a ponytail on his crown, his dark eyes full of laugher as always. His skin was pale and his limbs were long, supple. He was the classic rich child, dressed in silk and pampered, led to lead a life of wealth, bathing in women with plenty of heirs so he needn't worry of a thing.

Or so he appeared, but Yves was actually the youngest son of the high-class Rousseau family, bred for nobility and grown instead into a life of whorish mania, throwing himself into the arms of any man who struck his fancy. It was no secret that his lithe body was marked by the come of many of Paris's future vicomtes and barons, nor that his favorite of these was Raoul. His smile was seductive, his body beautiful, and his hair like spun silk. He was ravishing, to say the least.

"A kiss, my lord, and I'll forget your awful tyranny against my poor heart," he purred, coming close and wrapping his arms around Raoul's neck. Raoul rolled his eyes, used to Yves's flirting, and leaned forward kissing him chastely. It was the most Yves ever got from him, and it usually was enough to make him back off. Apparently not anymore.

"Ah, be still, my heart," he sighed dramatically, fanning himself. He opened his eyes then and gave Raoul a saucy grin. "Be still, my cock!" Ah, so vulgar, the boy was! But Raoul loved him. When he wasn't flirting, he really was a sweet child—wise beyond his years and kinder than he normally made out to be.

Raoul very _gently_ pushed him away, rolling his eyes yet again. "No, Yves." Despite the nonchalant front he was putting up, his voice had a much firmer edge to it. He wasn't asking Yves; he was telling him.

He pouted. "But Raoul! No fair, mon ange! You won't play with me anymore?" He tugged on Raoul's sleeve, who just chuckled at him. "Mon ange," he repeated, growling at him. "Answer me!"

"I won't play with you anymore," he answered calmly. He knew how Erik would react to _that_, and to be quite frank, it frightened him. He had never "played" with Yves in the way he was implying, anyway, but he wasn't going to play along with his act any longer. He knew Yves liked him, but until Erik, he'd had not a single errant thought about another man and he wasn't going to think about expanding his horizons. Still, Yves was the tempter. The boy was only fifteen, but more erotic than the devil and much more inclined to use his sexuality in a way that none can resist him. "I can't, Yves."

"But _why_, mon ange?" he whined, still somehow sounding cute. He pouted up at him with his pink lips. "You _always _play with me, so long as I'm discrete! And you are my favorite!" Yves usually _was _discrete about his flirting and Raoul normally enjoyed the playful banter, but in the opera house, nothing was discrete. Erik would hear all, and that thought enough was plenty of reason not to _play _any longer.

"I know, Yves," he whispered to him, leaning in close in case his jailer-lover-_Erik _was nearby. "I know. But I am… caged." There. He knew Yves would understand that. It wasn't the best idea to tell him that he was in fact in a homosexual relationship (the moment Erik got bored with him, assuming he did, Yves would be at his side begging for a try), but he couldn't think of another way to make him stop without hurting him, and Raoul actually was rather fond of the boy. It wasn't as if the relationship was his idea, anyway.

Yves's eyebrows furrowed and he frowned, dropping his flirtatious game. "Caged? Va te faire foutre, enculé." He pouted again and Raoul gaped at him. Of course Yves would curse at him at the first refusal. "No," he sighed, leaning up to cup Raoul's face, laying soft kisses over his cheeks. "I didn't mean that. I was angry, mon ange."

"You're still angry," Raoul scoffed. "I know you are." Yves smiled, nodding.

"I am, yes. What will you do about it?" He leered at Raoul, his eyes burning a glorious shade of amber. He tugged on Raoul's hand, whose own eyes went wide and he shook his head, resisting as Yves began to drag him off the stage. He didn't fight him, knowing that it would be easier to talk him down in private. A public confrontation would become a newspaper headline, and Raoul didn't want his latent homosexuality out more than it already was (a couple stagehands had caught him being harassed by Erik in one of the balconies, who seemed to love embarrassing him publicly).

Yves slammed the door behind him after pushing Raoul into an unused prop storage room. "Now tell me," he ordered, putting his hands on his hips. Raoul had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. What would Erik do to him if he said anything? "I want to know. You're caged, but he's obviously not part of the underground because you—" he pointed toward Raoul's neck, exposed by his simple white shirt (which he was fairly sure was Erik's, because it smelt like cinnamon and amaranth and he had no clothes of his own in Erik's home). "—are not marked."

Raoul sighed. He'd asked Erik specifically _not _to mark his neck, but it was doing more harm than good now. "I am still the viscount de Chagny, Yves. Would it do me well to be marked?" Slim fingers trailed the teenager's own throat, tracing the marks there. "It's a… secret… relationship, Yves."

"But that's not fair!" Yves cried, stomping his foot childishly, catching Raoul off guard. "I've been after you for years, and you give yourself to someone you don't know, that I don't know!"

"Who says I don't know him?" Raoul asked incredulously, feeling a tad guilty and a tad shocked that Yves had been so very close to the truth. "For all you know, I've known him all my life."

"Where does he live, then, Japan? I don't know him!" he repeated, putting his hands on his dainty hips. "I refuse to be played, Raoul! Mon ange or not, I won't be played. You know you're important to me, and you take advantage!" Raoul gaped at him and the guilt inside of him grew. "You ask favors of me, beg me to do this and that—I am your confidant, the only one besides Mlle. Daaé who understands you. I listen to you, comfort you. Because you're my favorite."

The blonde winced. How pathetic did it make him, a twenty year old man, that all of what the fifteen year old said was the truth? "I know, Yves." His voice was quiet; weak. "I know. I feel horrible now—"

"As you should, mon ange," he cut in with a glare.

"—but telling you would put you in harm's way. I don't want you hurt and you know it. You know I care for you, Yves. You know I'd do anything for you."

"But you won't trust me with your heart," he concluded bitterly. "_Soyez toujours, mon coeur… _a farce! At least tell me your love, trust me with it—you didn't even tell me you've feelings for men. How is that in any way fair? I, your mon chaton…" He trailed off, his voice becoming sad. "You've not called me that in months. I've barely seen you in months." He threw his hands up in frustration. Raoul winced; how horrible would it be to tell him that in the drama with the opera ghost, he'd nearly forgotten him? "I've missed you, mon ange." He sounded his age again, hurt that he'd not been trusted.

"Mon chaton," he whispered, guilt plaguing him now like an illness. "I'm sorry, Yves. I—I'm frightened. I don't know what to make of anything anymore, and I don't want you involved."

"By knowing you I'm already involved," he scoffed. "Tell me! Tell me, mon ange. We've been so close for so long. Can't you trust me? Can't your mysterious dominant trust me, if you do?"

"Who says he's my dominant?" Raoul asked, scandalized by the very thought, no matter the fact basis behind it. Yves just rolled his eyes at the blonde, crossing his arms stiffly.

"I know you," he sighed. "I know you very well, mon ange. My best friend… one of the few who sees me as a person instead of a piece of ass." Raoul wisely chose not to point out it was Yves's own tendencies that had earned him _that _reputation. "I love you, you know that. I want only what's best for you, even if—" His voice broke off and he cleared his throat before continuing. "Even if it's not me. So tell me, who has caged you, hm?"

He sighed as well. He couldn't just leave the boy without anything at all. He knew he should tell him; Yves trusted _him_ with everything, after all. So much younger than he, but they were still so close—Yves was right.

"If I tell you, if I do, mon chaton," he began wearily. "You must swear not to say a word to anyone. If you do, it will invariably mean horrible things for you."

"I will keep silent," he swore, his voice serious. "I'll say not a word. You can trust me, mon ange. You know you can." He took a step forward, taking Raoul's hands in his own much smaller ones. His hands were warm, Raoul thought. So much warmer than he was these days.

"My lover," he murmured, letting Yves hold his hands, warming them as well as he could. "My lover is the Phantom, mon chaton. He is the Phantom." Yves didn't say anything at first and his thumbs continued to rub circles into the back of Raoul's hands, but his eyes widened and he gulped almost indiscernibly.

"_M. le fantome_," he said in a calm voice, but his lower lip trembled slightly. "Your lover is the _opera ghost_?" He didn't sound disgusted, like Raoul thought he would, merely confused, and shocked. "He is real?"

"He's real," Raoul confirmed, licking his suddenly dry lips. "He's very real."

"But…" His voice faltered. "Isn't he evil? Isn't he a murderer? Aren't you frightened, mon ange? You would pick a murderer over me?" By the time he finished the last sentence, Raoul wasn't listening anymore. Suddenly, it was Raoul who held Yves's hands, his eyes boring into the amber orbs.

"He's not evil," Raoul said quickly. "He's not! Insane, perhaps, but he's not evil. He's _wonderful_, Yves—mon chaton, wonderful! I didn't choose to be with him, but he's wonderful, and I want to be with him now." _Want _was a relative term, and suited his purposes. It didn't quite describe the aching pity in his chest, the feeling like it was his _duty_ to be with him, but it was close enough. "He is an angel, Yves, like you see me—an angel and a devil. A man of heaven and earth is all." Christine's words suddenly seemed very fitting to him.

"Raoul," he murmured, suddenly looking very scared. "Raoul, you're white. You're… Raoul, you're crying." Raoul pulled his hands away, touching his cheeks lightly.

"Not again," he moaned. Oh, he had been so calm for the past week. It was talking about Erik that triggered it, triggered those horrible emotions. That was what Christine was talking about—he was still unable to accept them.

"You should come with me, mon ange," he said quietly, taking a firm hold of Raoul's left hand again. "Come. You should sleep—you have horrible bags under your eyes!—and you will explain to me what's going on. I don't like your tears, mon ange…" He trailed off and led Raoul to the door, completely unaware of the glorious golden green eyes that followed them.

Erik stepped from the shadows, a frown turning his lips into a thin line. His Raoul—he was not upset with him, though he was jealous of the boy. He would have been angry, had he not heard for himself how Raoul denied him, and now he cared for Raoul. It was similar to the way Erik felt for him, really.

But he didn't understand what made Raoul tremble so, and that, he did not like. He had never seen Raoul like that—fragile, weak. The last person he'd seen in that state was Christine, so many months ago. Could he be ruining Raoul the way he had tainted Christine? Tainted them with his madness?

He didn't know, but he intended to find out.

**The next chapter will be from Erik's POV, I think. Sorry this took so long—I've been busy. Haunting Eternity is finished now, though, so I'll be able to keep up on this more, I promise!**

**Kandakicksass**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry this took so long! I was… preoccupied…**

Erik watched from the shadows, hidden and silent, as the boy (a child, really, since he was much younger than Raoul and he was barely a man himself) led Raoul into the sitting room and gestured for him to sit. Raoul seemed to not need the instruction; he appeared very much at home in the small flat. The boy returned a few moments afterwards with a cup of tea (Erik was certain; he could smell it from his shadows), which he handed to the blonde.

"Thank you, Yves," he murmured, taking it with a grateful nod after he shrugged out of his coat. He almost missed the boy's name, he was so focused on Raoul. The blonde looked horrible; his eyes had harsh rings around them, and his skin was rather pale (not that it wasn't in the first place). Erik knew that he wasn't sleeping very well; he woke from nightmares at least once a night, often more. It worried Erik… even more thinking he may very well be the cause.

He was tainting Raoul and he knew it. He'd watched the viscount for a very long time before he had captured him, like a butterfly, so innocent, carefree… it was part of the appeal. Raoul was so headstrong, so pretty and free, Erik had hoped that it would work with Raoul, that they could together without Raoul being ruined. It seemed he was turning out to be wrong. God, he hated himself. Raoul was so beautiful, so innocent. What was he doing?

Raoul was _shaking_, just barely—just enough that it was visible. Anyone else would have thought him cold… but Erik had seen this before. Christine… even the Daroga had gone through it before. He'd let himself hope that maybe Raoul would be different, that they could be together peacefully.

For a moment, he was distracted by the thought of Christine. His worst mistake. His infatuation with her had burned through him like fire, scorching every bit of control within him. He had hurt her, many times, when all he'd wanted was that small piece of heaven to hold him, to light his darkness. Of course he'd snuffed out her light… but it relieved him to know that she was healing. It was why he'd backed off—almost entirely save for a couple meetings instigated by the brunette.

The boy got his attention again with a sigh, watching Raoul with weary eyes as he ran a hand through his unruly auburn hair, fiddling with the ribbon as he sat in a chair lined with leather opposite the couch. He had given off the impression of being fanciful, a light-hearted youth, but the look he gave Raoul now was more than serious. "Raoul, you were crying earlier."

Erik couldn't help but blanch; how blunt the boy was! But Raoul didn't look deterred in the least.

"I don't even know where to begin," he said, his tea in one hand, running his fingers through his tousled blonde hair with the other. "I'm not even sure what you'd want to hear." His voice was so tired, still lovely. It had never possessed the finesse of Christine's, that bell-like ring, but it was lovely all the same—a soft, pure tenor.

"Raoul," Yves sighed. "You're not getting why you're here, are you?" The blonde's weary blue eyes met Yves's with confusion and sheer exhaustion. The boy clicked his tongue and stood, moving to take a seat at Raoul's side. "Raoul. I want to know why you look half dead, yet so unhealthily devoted you can't die. So tell me, whatever you think is relevant. Just talk to me, mon ange." Raoul chuckled dryly, his weak laughter fading quickly.

"It's such a long story," he murmured after a while." Not even because of the amount of time it retells, but that so much is there to talk about, to explain. I care about him." His voice sharpened, much like Christine's had every now and again when speaking of Erik with Raoul before. "I really do, you know. As much pain as I'm in now, it would ail me worse to leave his side."

Erik wouldn't lie and say it didn't please him to hear that. It did please him, very much. He felt his heart (whatever was left of it over the years) swell with muted happiness. At the _very least_, Raoul cared for him. There was a darker emotion underneath his pleasure, though, one he couldn't name. One like regret, self-loathing… even pity. Some for himself, some for Raoul—but all of that hatred was directed at himself. As much as he loved to know Raoul cared for him, it was practically murder and he'd known it when he'd made the first move.

It was his fault Raoul cared for him, his fault that Raoul would never live a normal life.

"You care for him," Yves repeated, more of a prompt than anything. Raoul came back to himself, nodding, his eyes, still the most lovely shade of crystal blue, sharpening again.

"I do. Even through the dreams, through the terror… I care so much about him." His voice was muffled by its hand.

"The dreams?" Yves asked quietly.

"So many dreams," Raoul breathed, tipping his head back and letting his hands fall. He didn't notice when the tea nearly tipped off of his knees into Yves's waiting hands. "Some of them are horrible. Some just… haunting. I think about them, even when I'm not asleep. I can't help it. Every time we're together…" he shuddered. There was a small _chink _as Yves set the tea on the table

"Like…?" Raoul had a thin smile in response to that.

"I won't tell you," he said, his voice dryly amused. He seemed to be gaining a tired control over his emotions. "I won't tell you. Too personal. Mmm… not all of them."

"But you'll tell me some?" he prompted, running a hand through his own bronze curls. The humidity had gotten to it, leaving little wisps of ringlets framing his face. The hair in his ponytail had turned to a frizzy mess. "I don't need everything, Raoul. Just what's important. Let me help you." He sounded on the very verge of begging and Erik could respect that he cared enough to undermine his pride to do so.

"I'll tell you some," Raoul conceded. "I could tell you some of them that would make you sick." He laughed so softly it almost sounded like a stifled sob. "I had one that was so bad I woke up and was shocked to be clean instead of covered in blood. I couldn't look at Erik at least until noon." He winced.

"Why can't you tell me some of them?" he asked, his voice carefully structured, hiding the most of his worry. Erik, however, was excellent at reading people, and Yves wasn't difficult to read. Silently, he shifted feet while he watched.

"Some of them are wildly inappropriate for your young brain," he teased weakly, but underneath the playfulness, his voice was serious. "If you want, I'll tell you what inspired them, but I won't describe them to you." Erik arched his eyebrows from his shadow. Raoul was making it sound like he'd had erotic dreams about him.

"I do want to know, mon ange," Yves urged. "Tell me." Erik was reminded by the constant shifting, the energy, that Yves was still no more than a child. He'd been questioning it since Raoul had made the 'young' comment before he'd remembered.

"I'm not used to being with men, the way you are," he murmured, leaning toward Yves like he was uncomfortable talking about it out loud. "It was unusual. He pretty much blackmailed me to be his date, saved me from Philippe's wrath… not that I'd have been in the situation if not for him… he still protected me, took care of me. But… doing things with him…" His cheeks, still pale, flushed just slightly. "I'd compare our relationship, if that's what you call it, to what he had with Christine… then it turned to comparing myself to a woman…"

This seemed to really disturb him and thus upset Erik because it was yet another thing he could do nothing about. "Raoul," Yves sighed. "You've broken the cardinal rule of being gay: don't compare yourself to women." He tsked. Raoul laughed with him, but it was a pathetic attempt.

"I couldn't help it," he sighed. "He treats me like I'm fragile. It feels wonderful, of course… always does. But sometimes, I feel like a woman with him. I keep thinking that everything he does to me I've done to women and even though I know it's not like that… I feel degraded."

"I envy you the understanding of your own feelings," Yves snorted. "I could never do that. And even if I could, I would never admit it."

"I never know what to say around him," Raoul said after another little moment of silence. "Sometimes, the dreams are easier, even the violent ones. At least then I know that all I have to do is lay there and take it, no talking involved."

"Take it?" Yves repeated quietly and Raoul nodded.

"The really bad ones are pain from beginning to end. Never ending… you have no idea how many times I've woken up terrified to find myself in the same bed as Erik."

"That's horrible."

Raoul's wry smile was more painful than his words. "What's worse is that even though he beats me, does whatever he can—un_speakable_ things—to hurt me, I still want to wrap him up in my arms. A beautiful, horrible monster that can't help it, that's all he is. So beautiful." His voice choked up and he quieted, clearing his throat. "You've never seen him the way I have."

"What, does he have a nice body?" Yves joked, but the look Raoul gave him was completely serious. "Are you serious? The phantom of the opera has a nice body?"

Erik couldn't help but stiffen while he waited for Raoul's answer. Would he tell Yves about his horrible imperfections? Would he describe the horror behind his mask? Erik let his insecurity rule for a split second. "He's absolutely gorgeous," Raoul answered softly. "He would never believe that, though. So hauntingly gorgeous… it kills me, knowing the kind of life he's lived when he could have had a much better one."

"What do you mean?" the boy asked carefully, a hand on Raoul's knee when he noticed his slender hands shaking.

"He's beautiful," Raoul moaned again. "So beautiful. If it weren't for that horrid deformity, he would be able to live like the rest of us—if only you knew him, Yves! You would see… he is the match of any noble. He's brilliant on top of it… half of his face! His entire life has been a shadow, a bloody mess, because of damned human prejudice!" Erik felt his chest tighten and decided he greatly disliked the feeling. "It kills me to be around him and know that I can't do anything about it, that even if I could he's already been broken by his past. Sometimes, I think it's _literally _killing me." The last few words were mere whispers.

"Do you think he wouldn't let you go, if he knew?" Yves questioned and Raoul let out a little sound that was between a groan and a sigh.

"I think he would—he would! If he knew, he'd want to, he would! I'm almost positive… but I could never leave him. Even if I did, he would haunt me. Eventually I would wander back to him. There's no doubt about that."

"Would you even want to return?"

Raoul snorted. "No, I would go back for something to do. Of course!" His cheeks colored when he thought of something and he turned away.

"A penny for your thoughts?" the boy prompted, keeping his eyes trained on Raoul's blush.

"Damn, I feel like such a woman," he cursed under his breath. "It's just that… I feel wrong when I'm not with him. Slightly off-balance. I can't even sleep without him. He didn't come home one night because he was doing something as the opera ghost, and I couldn't sleep. The entire night. Better than nightmares, but I was exhausted the next day and pretty much passed out in Erik's arms a little before dinner. He thought it was funny, but he didn't know I hadn't slept because he was gone."

Well, he knew now, Erik thought grimly. He wouldn't make _that _mistake again.

"Raoul…"

But Raoul was shaking again and sprung up like a spring, grabbing the coat in two trembling hands. "I can't do this, Yves, I really can't. I feel… almost sick? I feel like I'm exposing everything… I can't, Yves."

"Okay," the boy conceded and Erik actually felt some fondness for him, who seemed to care about Raoul with his entire being, the way he did himself. "Do you want me to walk you back?" Raoul shook his head.

"No," he answered. "Right now, I don't think I could be around anyone but Erik. I just want to be… alone? I don't know. I don't want to deal with anyone but him." With that, Raoul rushed to the door.

Before he left to chase his vicomte, however, he heard Yves murmur sadly, "Mon ange… poor, tortured mon ange. You have fallen in love with a broken angel yourself." He sighed, and trailed to the kitchen. Erik left, the words haunting his mind. He turned at the edge of the building, ready to slide in with the passersby seamlessly, looking for Raoul. He caught a head of blonde hair and hurried to his side.

"Raoul," he breathed and the vicomte started, looking up at him with those pleading blue eyes that had struck him from their first meeting. In awe, he watched as Raoul's expression turned to dazzling relief, a small smile turning his lips upwards.

_When I see your face_

_There's not a thing that I would change…_

_'Cause you're amazing_

_Just the way you are…_

"Can we go home?" the blonde asked him, his teeth nibbling on his bottom lip and after a quick look around, Erik leaned down and gently kissed him. He'd been deprived of his little fop since the morning and missed his touch.

"Of course," Erik murmured. Things were going to change between himself and Raoul—his Raoul, who deserved so much more than him. He would never be able to change himself, but maybe just showing Raoul that Erik cared as much about him and more as Raoul cared about him would help. At this point, anything would help.

Erik couldn't lose Raoul. He would kill himself before he did.

**Two more chapters, everyone. TWO! Success!**

**Kandakicksass**


	8. Chapter 8

**Song for the chapter: In Venere Veritas by HIM. Listen to it, swine, and become obsessed. **

Raoul threw his head back, his breathing shallow, his hips rocking, warm hands forcing him down harder to the point where he was filled. His own hands, stabilizing him, were placed on Erik's chest, digging into smooth, pale skin. His nails drew blood, but he knew Erik wouldn't care and he couldn't bring himself to give a damn, either.

"You beautiful thing," Erik whispered, pulling him down for a kiss and Raoul let him, his entire body quivering. There was a bruise on one of those aristocratic cheekbones, dark and angry, yet somehow it didn't distract from his startlingly charming looks. "So lovely. I'm sorry I hit you."

"I know," he whispered, kissing the line of Erik's jaw, his hips moving on their own, searching for carnal pleasure. "I know, I know…" His kisses became fevered and found the brunette's lips again. He did know, really he did—Erik had been in a fit because of something the managers had done, and Raoul had tried to calm him down. It had worked, at a cost—the bruise on his face was testimony to that. It had taken him slapping his precious vicomte for him to realize what he was doing, how fiercely he was raging. He had almost immediately dragged him to bed in apology.

Raoul had never felt safer in Erik's arms, and wasn't at all affected by the slap. He had known when he'd let Erik take him that there would be times when his temper would go wild. Honestly, he'd expected a lot more pain; he knew very well how sadistic Erik could be—yet the ghost seemed to dislike hurting him. There were times when he would pull on his hair, or bruise his hips, but any and all such incidents were made of passion, not sadism.

It didn't take much more than Erik wrapping a firm hand around his erection to make him come after that, warm liquid filling him inside as well and he sighed, slumping against Erik's body.

"I really am sorry," Erik murmured gruffly. He wasn't used to apologizing for hurting him physically, no matter how pitiable his real personality was; hurting people was part of his nature, so much that hitting him didn't make him feel as guilty as hurting his feelings did. Raoul could still see part of that man who had begged at Christine's feet—he had seen him personally.

After the second time he had blown up at Raoul for interrupting his _Don Juan Triumphant_, had frightened him unintentionally, Raoul had in turn begged that he never get on his knees again in that sense and Erik had since then been working on being humble without degrading himself. It truly amazed Raoul, seeing two very alive facets of his personality that were so opposite—his humility, the belief that he was the scum of the earth that didn't deserve affection, and his pride, self-confident and strong.

"I know," he repeated, a little smile curving his lips upward. He shivered, the cold air of the house getting to him, and stuck closer to Erik.

"You'll have to go up soon," Erik sighed, his hand rubbing circles into the small of his back. "They'll get suspicious, and Christine is worried about you."

"Why?" Raoul yawned, sleep closing his eyes for him. "She was here… what was it, yesterday?"

"The day before, little vicomte," Erik chuckled, his hand moving from Raoul's back to his hair, stroking fondly. "You really are a little out of it, aren't you? That proves it. We'll take a nap, and you'll go up for a bit."

"I don't want to go up."

Erik stilled, looking down at him in surprise, and he himself felt cold shock filtering through him as he realized what he had said. Had he really just…?

Avoiding what was coming, he buried his head in Erik's chest, feeling his own tighten uncomfortably. Tears stung his eyes and he trembled, terrified of himself and how quickly and easily he was giving in. A month since his visit with Yves, and he was already pining for more time with the tortured artist, drinking up attention like wine. He felt almost sick at the force of his need for closeness.

"Raoul, mon amour," he murmured in their native language, one he hadn't spoken in many years prior to his coming to the opera house, and Raoul tried to ignore him. "Don't cry, love." Raoul wanted to continue pretending he was merely a very comfortable, warm pillow, but the sound of Erik's voice, so near pleading in that uncomfortable way, made him wipe his eyes, avoiding looking up at him. "Sleep, beautiful."

"Sorry," Raoul muttered, his voice tight. "I keep saying things that take me off guard."

Erik didn't say anything, but still he continued to stroke fine blonde hair and soon enough Raoul was asleep, his tense body relaxing for a couple short hours. He continued to stroke his hair, guilt hitting him with surprising force. Just another reminder of how he'd ruined the boy.

"I love you," he whispered into blonde hair, pulling sheets over them both.

*(Later, Christine's Dressing Room)*

"It is _so _good to see you," she sighed in relief. "I've been worried sick, Raoul. You have no idea—Yves has been by at least three times. Sweet boy, wonder why we haven't met before…"

Raoul gave her a tired smile. "That little pest has been by, has he?" he asked, his voice soft. "He is sweet. I'll have to find him later—and don't worry. I'm fine." Giving him a disbelieving look, she reached out and hesitantly touched the bruise on his cheek with the tip of her index finger. He flushed, swatting her hand away. "He lost it a bit this morning… afternoon? The managers, I think, were the cause…" He shrugged. "I'm fine."

"He hit you," she said quietly. "Not fine."

"I am fine," he insisted, touching her shoulder gently. "Really. You didn't see him… he apologized." He said it like it explained and pardoned everything. To him, it did. He knew Erik, rather well. Perhaps even better than Christine these days. "Erik would never hurt me on purpose, little lotte."

She sighed, leaning back and running hand through her hair the way she always did when she was thinking about something. "I suppose you're right," she submitted, albeit grudgingly. "I trust you; I just can't get the picture of him angry out of my head. I just get so terrified you'll be hurt…" She shuddered. "I'm being stupid, aren't I?"

He smiled at her sadly, shaking his head. "Not in the slightest, Christine. Not in the slightest."

It was quiet between them for a while, Raoul moving to the couch and motioning Christine over. He held her, just held her, for what felt like hours. This woman, so precious to him, his sister, honestly worried about him in a way no one else did, besides Yves. His closest friends, his most honored confidants. Christine and Yves were the only two people he really trusted other than Erik, and both had very special places in his heart.

"Mlle. Daaé—"

They both looked up at the auburn-haired youth, standing in the doorway in surprise for a mere second before he rushed into the room, relief clear in his features.

"Raoul!" he cried, sitting next to him and embracing them both. "You're okay! I haven't been able to get a hold of you in at least two weeks, where have you been, mon ange?"

"With Erik," he replied. "I'm sorry. I haven't been in contact—I haven't really thought about much involving the aboveground." Yves raised his eyebrows, but the teasing expression didn't match his eyes. They were agonized with his concern and Raoul felt guilt well within him. "Sorry," he added weakly.

"You haven't thought about the aboveground," Christine repeated. "How do you not think about the above ground? When I was with him, I thought about it _all the time_. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It haunted me down there—made me dream of sunlight and warmth."

Raoul looked down as Christine moved from his lap to the side of him, her hand on his arm gently. Yves had tightened his embrace, completely unwilling to let go. Raoul was touched by the boy's worry, and ashamed because of it. He loved these people dearly, and he was letting them down by shutting himself away with Erik, completely oblivious to the outside world.

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, his cheeks heating. "I didn't realize—of course, it must worry you, Erik and I alone down there for weeks at a time. Don't know what I was thinking, completely stupid…"

"You were thinking about him," Christine murmured in awe. "And only of him. Weren't you? You must have been completely absorbed… you must have not wanted to leave." He winced as she said everything he felt. "My god. Everything I told you, about loving him… you took it and rewrote everything, didn't you?"

He looked up at her in shock. "What are you saying?" he stammered, forced from his lips.

Her eyes were sober, though pitying, and he found that he couldn't look at them for too long. "I loved him, Raoul, you knew this. Pitied him, and loved him. I still feared him, though. You… you don't fear him anymore."

He slid away from her discreetly, not liking where she was going with that. "I do, I do fear him."

"Not like you should," she murmured, reaching out and caressing his cheek, and he pushed himself further into Yves, away from her. "Not anything like I did. You love him more than you fear him. You've fallen for him, Raoul, completely and totally. You belong to him now."

"No," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. He cleared his throat and repeated, "No. I'm not in love with him." But he knew the truth—he had been falling for so long, of his own accord. He moaned and buried his head in his hands. He was already so dependent on the man, and now he'd given his heart to him as well? He let out a broken sob and trembling, Yves tightened his arms around the blonde. "I don't want to be," he cried, turning on the brunette woman sitting there with heartbreak for him in her eyes. "Why? He kills me like this, makes me want to stay with him there forever! I can hardly remember what the sun is like anymore, can barely think about it."

"Raoul," Christine said, her voice trembling more than Yves. Her eyes were shining with tears, so much like his own, _for _him. He shook his head, blonde hair covering his face while he cried, Yves rocking him slowly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his manhood demanded that he feel shame for crying so often in front of them, but he couldn't—he could feel only exhaustion, and fear. Fear of cementing himself into the darkness being with Erik drowned him in.

Above his head, Christine and Yves exchanged looks, fearful looks. They were bound by a common thread—Raoul. Fear for Raoul, pity and love for him as well. Tears for him.

"I love him," Raoul managed to admit, gasping each word like they pained him, and cried harder, curling in on himself. "God! Just when I thought that maybe I could make it through this!" Strangely, though, his plans to make it through didn't involve leaving Erik. He couldn't even picture leaving him there, all alone in the dark where he'd been so much of his life, but he didn't want to love him, didn't want to sign a deal with Satan himself, tying him to the darkness forever. Yet he had.

He was weary, his body tired and betraying. Soon enough his tears turned to deep, light breathing, and Yves laid his blonde head in his lap, stroking fine hair, his other hand wiping his tears away. "I never knew love was so painful," he whispered. His voice was hoarse from his constant effort to keep from breaking down.

Christine, who had moved back to the vanity so Raoul could stretch his legs in his sleep, turned back to him with an unnervingly sober expression. She really was beautiful, Yves thought sadly. The same kind of innocent beauty as Raoul, with her wide, vivid eyes—windows to the soul—and her fair skin. Her hair, curled in chocolate ringlets that framed her face, only added to her doll-like appearance. Who wouldn't want the two of them, Christine with her doll-beauty and Raoul with his youthful, gentlemanly appearance? Raoul was so lovely as well, with softer curves than most men and a clear complexion, blue eyes startling, blonde hair soft as silk. He couldn't blame Erik for wanting them, he really couldn't. He could only imagine the guilt the man must feel for hurting them so.

"It always has been for me," she shrugged, her lips quirked upward in a somber smile. Her eyes were tired, so very tired. "I know where he is, Raoul… I've been there, before him. The hole he's buried himself in… I knew it as well, just never quite so well…" Her words were clipped, as if the whole experience was a very painful memory. Yves was sure it was.

"I'm in a relationship now," Yves told her softly. "And I am so happy with him… I think I may love him, my precious Eli. Now I am afraid…" His voice broke and he cleared it, unwilling to give in. "I am so very afraid that we would end up so broken, like Raoul is."

She tried to keep her smile, failing miserably. "I think we all fear that," she said, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. "I know I do."

"Erik," Raoul whispered in his sleep, and he shivered once before relaxing again. They both watched him and Yves didn't say a single word, just continued to run his fingers through Raoul's hair, trying to comfort him though he knew it was impossible.

**One more chapter, everyone! One more!**

**Kandakicksass**


	9. Chapter 9

**Song for the chapter: Lose You Tonight by HIM, or Close To The Flame, same band. Seriously, look them up. I won't stop hounding all of you until you do.**

Raoul woke up with a splitting headache and a crick in his neck that _would not _go away no matter what. Automatically, a hand came up to cover his eyes, though the light was low, probably from a candle or two. Erik didn't like the light much and rarely had more than two candles out at a time. Somehow, Raoul couldn't bring himself to mind. As much as it terrified him, he was coming to love the darkness. Bright light, honestly, unsettled him. He wasn't used to it anymore and he could no longer remember why he had loved his endless afternoons laying in a field with it beating down on him.

"Raoul-love?"

The voice was gentle and so soft that even though it was so near his ear, it didn't make his headache throb more than it already was. "Christine?" he mumbled, his voice close to a whimper. "Christine, what are you doing here?"

Her lips quirked upward, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "You fell asleep on my couch, Raoul," she told him in her sweet voice. "It is nearly midnight; you've been here since shortly after noon." Her hand stroked his hair and he leaned into it. Erik played with his hair all the time and it felt good. It always felt a little different when someone else did so, though—he wasn't sure how he felt about it then. He knew Christine, though, and her touch was familiar. He couldn't mind it when she did it, even if it felt slightly wrong in the back of his mind.

"I'm sorry for falling apart like I did," he said quietly, his voice just the slightest bit hoarse. He cleared his throat and continued. "I really am a wreck, aren't I? I feel like I have so little control over my emotions anymore… but it was no excuse for snapping at you, or panicking the way I did. I must have scared you."

She shook her head. "Not me, Raoul, Yves. I know what it's like to be by Erik's side. Perhaps not absolutely, but I do understand, dear one. I expected as much when I first learned of the permanent nature of your relationship. It was Yves you scared. He's a little unused to the… dangerous nature of Erik's affections." He laughed dryly. "You really did terrify him—he's in a relationship and was horrified to think he may love him, because of your pain."

Raoul winced, struggling into an upright position. "I feel horrible now," he murmured and wondered why it was he kept hurting the people he cared about. He could hardly take a step without feeling guilt burn within him, and it was killing him.

"Don't," she said, her expression serene, her smile reassuring. "I spoke to him, explained things. He's still a little… anxious, but he understands better than he did—a great improvement. It took a bit to make him see the difference between your relationship with Erik and his with… what is his name? I can't quite remember. Eli! It was Eli. Well, he understands. I had to explain quite a bit about Erik, too, of course, but all is well. I suggest you return to the house, though," she told him knowingly. "He is probably very worried about you; you only rarely stay away from him for so long." His limbs stiff, his body sore, he sat up completely and nodded.

"I know," he sighed, looking up at the ceiling sadly. "I miss him already. I'm surprised I was able to sleep, actually…"

"You were exhausted," she said with a lift of her slender shoulders. "You very nearly passed out from distress. I can understand well how you could sleep." He gave her a dry smile.

"Yes," he murmured. "Of course. I should go, shouldn't I? If it has really been so long… Erik is probably worrying greatly now." He stood and swayed for a mere second before righting himself, determined. "I should think I'm finished with the tears," he announced as a last thought, smiling. He was so tired of being so weak, tired of letting his heart rule him. He wanted to be strong, for himself… and for Erik.

"You don't have to leave, Raoul," she disagreed, her hand on his knee from where she sat at the foot of the little couch. "Erik will one day have to get used to the fact that you have a job and a life outside of him." She looked up at him with her warm brown eyes and he smiled at her, laying a hand on her head just to feel the silkiness of her hair. She really was quite precious to him; one day, he would take care of her. If ever came a day that she had to leave the opera house, he would make sure she was comfortable, find her a cottage to live the rest of her life in.

"I'm going to go. I will visit again, perhaps tomorrow," he said instead of commenting. He knew what she said was the truth—hell, it was burned into the back of his mind in that little list of things that he couldn't forget. But still… he wasn't ready to _let _Erik let go. Erik's worry for him was honestly heartwarming and Raoul didn't think he was secure enough to be able to just know that Erik cared for him without the little shows of his affection.

Christine opened her mouth, but he didn't wait for the girl's reply; he simply turned to the door and strode through. As he walked, he thought. He had made much progress, he thought, listening to the gentle patter of his feet as he walked at a sure pace. He was comfortable—_happy_, even. Inside him, his heart beat quickly and he walked faster still. He was eager to see Erik again, to return to his home. It still somewhat worried him that he was so dependent on Erik, so readily accepting of his home, thrust upon him with no warning or consent… but it was his own now, and he wouldn't relinquish it.

He reached his destination, pulling his hair back in a simple ribbon to keep it out of the way, and slid behind a portrait, holding it from the wall only long enough to hit the small point that slid open the passageway. He slipped inside and the portrait fell back against the wall, the doorway closing behind him. He hurried down the long flight of stairs, still incredibly tired but persistent. His breath was short by the time he reached the end, but without a single delay he stripped off his shirt and shoes, leaving them at the stone shore. He would come for them later, he thought, stepping into the water, wading deeper and deeper until he could no longer touch the bottom, and he began to swim through the narrow canals to the little house by the lake.

While he swam, he thought hard. He was practically signing his own death warrant, yet he couldn't bring himself to turn around and walk away. He could, and he knew that. He could walk right out of the opera house and never return. He could go to Greece, or Italy—he could go anywhere, and he would never have to see Erik again. He wouldn't, however, of his own volition. If it were for Erik, if it was what was best for him, then he could bear it, but it was not—at least, not as far as he knew.

No, he would stay, and be happy. He was, with Erik—almost strangely so. Erik was important to him, and loved him (at least, he thought he did, but he wasn't about to press the issue past telling him that he loved him), and he wouldn't do anything to ruin what they had.

"Raoul!" Erik called from the door way of the little house as he noticed him swim up. He heaved himself up onto the dirt and flashed a grin at his lover, who looked distraught, causing him to roll his eyes, even though he'd known how upset Erik would be that he was gone for so long. "I feel utterly ridiculous for worrying, but did something happen? Are you okay?"

He laughed and let Erik help him to his feet, who pulled him into his arms and leaned down for a kiss. "I'm okay," he answered against those beautiful lips, his tongue flicking over the slight hint of the deformity that touched the very top of them. "I exhausted myself and fell asleep on Christine's couch. Nearly passed out, she said. You should have seen the panic I was in when I woke up, I missed you so!" He was sounded like a woman again but he shoved the thought aside and focused only on the evident pleasure lighting Erik's eyes.

"You missed me, eh?" he said, a smirk curving his lips upward and Raoul nodded, his smile wide, as he leaned up to kiss him again.

"I did, actually. I missed you. Even though it was only a few hours. I felt so strange waking up without you," he whispered, looking up from under his eyelashes at the man who held him, looking surprised at his openness. "I love you."

Erik stilled in his arms before he was crushed tighter against his chest and Erik was kissing him so fiercely he could barely breathe. Still, he laughed into the kiss. Erik's response telling him all he needed to know, emphasized when his thighs were gripped and he was hoisted up. He wrapped his long legs around Erik's waist, his arms around his neck as he let himself be ravaged.

He was pinned against the damp, cold wall and he held on tighter as Erik let go to undo his soaking, dripping pants, pulling them over his ass before quickly undoing his own, which were rather damp from having Raoul all over him. He pressed even tighter against Erik, seeking the warmth only the other could give him as their tongues entwined in a purely intimate manner, and moaned as he felt a certain lubricated part of Erik's anatomy press against him for a mere moment before sliding inside him, filling him and making him cry out.

"Love," Erik whispered against his throat while he tried to catch his breath. "Fickle thing."

"Not with me," he panted, tilting his head down just enough to press a warm kiss to Erik's temple. "My love is real, permanent. More real than anything." He kissed Erik's temple again. "More real than you—" A kiss on the forehead. "—or me—" S kiss on the bridge of his nose. "—or the wall you're having your wicked way with me against." He kissed his lips again, sweetly. It was the most heartfelt kiss he'd ever given anyone and Erik returned it, moving slowly within him.

Almost lovingly.

"I love you," he whispered reverently, like a prayer. Was it Raoul, or did he sound choked up? "So much."

Or just lovingly. He wasn't picky. His lips curved into a smile and he just held himself closer, mouthing _I love you, too _against Erik's mouth.

He lost track of time from there, knowing only the slow, deep breaths of his lover and the gradual heat building from the intense movement within him. Endlessly, they toiled, weary limbs working far past their limit, fueled on love and passion. Raoul thought dazedly somewhere near his orgasm that those words fit Erik very well. He was passionate, so passionate, and he loved. His love was different, unstable—and frightening. It would always be frightening. It was also completely pure, a light that brightened Erik from the inside out.

Then they came in a dazzling finish, cries at different octaves ringing through the cave. One tenor and one baritone, twining together like their bodies to create something not quite music… not simple screams. Somewhere in-between, like them.

~Epilogue~

Raoul, the Comte de Chagny, had spent many years in the darkness and his weathered, aged face was pale for lack of sunlight. He moved slowly, supported by a cane older than he, something obtained by his lover when he had been but a young man at least five years before his own birth. Erik had never seemed that old to him when they met, and even as they aged, it seemed a flawless, ageless beauty that graced him despite the deformity.

The cane did little good; it barely held him up. He had a wheelchair, at home—he had a great many things. When Philippe had died, everything had gone to him since he had certainly not disappeared from society. In fact, he had appeared in it much more as the years went on, often with his disguised beloved at his side. Still, the grave he was about to visit was in a place much unsuited for his chair. He had sent it to the small house he'd built next to the opera house for easy access to his real home, a place he'd claimed as his own just for society purposes, when he'd exited the cemetery that held his darling Christine's resting place, by the side of her loved ones—Meg Giry and her mother, for example—in graves paid for by Raoul.

He trembled at the top of the small hill, cursing his brittle state, but he soon calmed his frustration at the sight of the simple stone with the word _Erik _carved into it. He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he slowly sat next to the grave.

"Erik," he murmured in a voice quiet, airy voice. "My Erik." He'd promised himself when he'd felt his time come to a close that he would end things here, by the side of the one person he'd loved more than life itself.

Honestly, he wasn't sure how he'd made it without Erik. After he'd accepted all of his lover he had grown more and more dependent on the man by the day. It still unsettled him sometimes, knowing how he was now—half a person, half a life. Even with Erik, he'd never quite felt whole, like he'd given part of himself to the man, but then he'd known from the beginning their relationship would never be stable, or "normal".

Without Erik, the night seemed darker, the day blinding and piercing. He had sheltered himself in their little house by the lake, dwelled in their darkness, and cried until he could no longer breathe. There had been several close calls, but in the end, he had made it through.

They had lost everyone through the years—Christine first, but she'd always been a fragile thing and sickness claimed her shortly after her fiftieth birthday. Then Mme. Giry, then sweet Meg. Ten years or so after Meg, Erik's friend, the Daroga passed, a man who had spent most of his time in the shadows—so much, that Raoul didn't learn of the gravity of his existence in Erik's life until _much _later, and even then he hadn't known him well; he came in from time to time to check in on Erik. Raoul had dealt with each loss in his own way, always keeping his grief in check, and he'd healed every time.

Erik's loss had been brutal to him, a stab in the heart, and maybe that was why he was here a month later, pains in his heart and arm. He'd felt it once before but he'd made it through that, as well—he'd felt it coming on this time, the intuition of a man who was ready to die, and he knew it was time. That was why he'd climbed this hill, visited those he cared about, and made himself to rest here.

His vision went blurry around the edges and he fell over, laying in the grass staring at the stone with the name of his most precious person until his eyes closed and his breath slowed to a stop. He thought that just before his consciousness faded he could see Erik crouching next to him, as young and vibrant as he'd been the day they'd become acquainted, his unmasked face so whole and stunningly flawless that it drew a smile to his old face. He let Erik's warm arms envelope him and they floated together in oblivion.

…**. I like it. Am I a sap? Maybe.**

**Kandakicksass **


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